All She Wants Is, Ch. 7-Hearsay-3 x 12 (Poof! You're Dead)
Title: All She Wants Is-Hearsay-3 x 12 (Poof! You're Dead)
Rating: T
Summary: "Everything's driving her a little mad lately. The precinct is buzzes like a junior high lunch room, day and night, and for her, it's not a welcome change."
A/N: Venturing into S3 here, which might be a mistake
Everything's driving her a little mad lately. The precinct is buzzes like a junior high lunch room, day and night, and for her, it's not a welcome change.
She's happy for Lanie. Happy for Esposito, though she doesn't like the part of her that worries. The part of her that rises up with threats for him, warnings and grim prophecies for her, like it's any of her business. Like either of them needs her input or anyone else's, for that matter.
She's happy for them, but she wishes they'd just come clean already. Ryan's having a little too much fun torturing his partner. Everyone's having a little too much fun. Not quite catching the two of them in flagrante. Dropping not-quite-innocent comments and letting the two of them writhe a while.
Everyone's having tremendous fun, except her. The whole thing makes her careful. Exaggeratedly, awkwardly careful, because she doesn't like knowing things she's not supposed to know. She doesn't like feeling like a snoop when she pointedly, deliberately isn't one.
It's strange, given her profession. That's what people say when it comes up. If it comes up, because she's not exactly a sharer, either. But she doesn't think of it as strange.
Important. That's how she sees it. Do unto others, and lord knows she's fiercely private, but it's more than that. Important in more ways than just that.
She's not a snoop because of her profession. Because it's too easy to lose Kate to Beckett already. Because it's hard to switch her off at night and on her days off. It's hard enough to keep conversation from turning into interrogation. So she doesn't snoop, because she's more than the job. And no one needs reminding of that as much as she does.
She's not expecting things to get worse. She goes on worrying and not liking herself for it. She goes on wishing they'd come clean. Hoping that everyone, for the love of God, will tire of it or something-anything-else will capture the collective imagination.
But then something does, and it's worse. It's complicated, and she wasn't expecting it at all.
She's so definitely not expecting it that she barges right in outside the magic shop. Castle's leaning in, and Esposito's going pale. She thinks it's more of the same. That it's Castle winding the poor guy up, just like everyone has been, and it's stupid early and she's just had enough.
Everyone knows what? she asks with what she hopes is just enough oomph in Castle's direction that he'll take the hint.
Nothing.
It's absolute unison, but they might as well be speaking Swedish and Swahili for all the word has in common. Esposito makes an absolutely amateur feint with his two-way and slips off, but she hardly notices.
Castle practically radiates unhappiness. Tension, and it's the last thing in the world she was expecting. It's jarring enough that she's asking before she can think better of it. Before she recalls that it's really none of her business.
You ok, Castle?
The pause isn't much. Just a beat, but she fully expects him to rush right in. To call up his ready smile and change the subject, but he's silent. Unhappy, she thinks again, and she can't help herself. She goes on.
You seem upset.
The last word snags his attention. Or maybe it's that she's asking at all. Maybe he thinks she's annoyed that he's distracted. Either way, it calls up the ready smile. It sets his shoulders further back and lifts his chin.
No. No, I'm fine. Why?
Okay, she says, but it isn't. He isn't. And she doesn't like knowing things she's not supposed to know.
It's an unfamiliar feeling. The sudden urge to kill Kevin Ryan. To wrap him up in his tweedy little vest and suffocate him, just to shut him up. It's a new thing, and she wonders if he knows he's taking his life in his hands, waving that damned paper around. That damned page six that makes the scene in front of the magic shop all too clear. Clearer than it's meant to be.
Castle hasn't said a word. He has to know. He has to have seen Ryan and the other six, eight, ten people passing it from hand to hand. He has to have seen the off-putting photoshop job. His own scowl and Gina's crudely snipped and set on the faded gray of the page.
She thinks he must know, then thinks he doesn't know at all. Back-and-forth, she goes, and why? It's none of her business. Whatever's behind his unhappy silence. Whatever has him so turned inward that might well not know that it's in the paper. That he's the source of the current lunchroom buzz.
It's none of her business, but it tests her resolve like nothing before. Not about snooping, exactly, but asking. Pressing the issue like he would, because it bothers him when she's upset. It bothers her when he is, and that really shouldn't be a revelation. It isn't. That's another not exactly, but this is different.
Because it's not just a stupid fight about Taylor Swift tickets, and it's not just a couple of warmed over inches of gossip column. He's upset, and she doesn't like it. She tries teasing him out of it. Lifting his phone and holding it up with a flourish. She feels a flush of pride when he laughs. A flush of something else entirely when when he flirts.
You had your hand in my pocket and I didn't even feel it? Do it again.
But the phone rings. It's Gina, and he shuts down instantly. His face is stone as he takes the phone from her. He jams his thumb on the button, leaving a thick, heavy silence between them.
What? he says, and she doesn't know-genuinely doesn't know-if he wants her to answer. If he's waiting for it, and he's so unhappy, she almost doesn't care if he wants to talk about it or not. If she's supposed to know or not supposed to know. She almost doesn't care, because he's upset and she doesn't like it.
Except she does like it, and that's what stops her mouth in the end. He's dodging his ex-wife-slash-girlfriend-slash-publisher's calls. And there's a dark, fucked up little part of her that's thrilled.
She's tugged this way and that, caught in the middle with Ryan pressing Esposito about his buddy, Ray the magic show lover. A smile zings all around the bullpen at that one. Even Castle catches a sliver of it. But she's the wall it slams into. She's caught in the middle and had enough and they're off after Tobias Strange.
It's a relief. The two of them away from the lunchroom drama machine, at least, and he seems glad enough that she doesn't want to talk about the business with the phone or the paper or anything. He's not fishing or looking at he sidelong, trying to figure what she knows or doesn't know, and it's an absolute relief for an hour or two.
He's off on the retribution angle. He's absolutely enthralled by the possibility of espionage in the illusion business, and he's a new man, spinning off into uncharted territory. He chatters on and on as they crawl through traffic. She rolls her eyes and pokes holes in every last scenario, and it might not be wishful thinking that he's as grateful to be out of the thick of it as she is. She watches him out of the corner of her eye and it seems true. They spill out of the car and he's still going. He's on to a counter-spy in a sequined bathing suit.
"I'm telling you. Getting Chuck booted was a dry run. Ooh! What if he needed the C4 to plant it?" He hurries after her as she shakes her head. "What if he suspected them both - "
"Both?" She turns as she stabs the button for the elevator down to the morgue. "Two magician spies now?"
"Strange's rival and his assistant." He brushes off her skepticism entirely. "She was the more dangerous one. They always are, you know."
He gives her an up-and-down look that's silly at first, but turns inside out somewhere along the way. It sends a shiver chasing over her skin. It shouldn't, but it does, and he knows it does. He's surprised, but he knows.
He lets it hover in the air for a beat. It's too close in the elevator, and she'd almost rather see him upset. Almost.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. It calls them both back to who they're supposed to be. Out of a different corner of the lunchroom entirely. His breath hitches just enough that she notices. Just enough that he might mean her to, and he goes on.
"Zalman had orders to neutralize her, but the magician was a minor player. So shine a light on him and boom! He's effectively out of the game."He thinks about it. Grins to himself. "Literally boom!"
She overplays the scowl. Exaggerates to keep them here in this familiar back-and-forth. To keep them well clear of anything that isn't and can't be, but it's no good. It's pointless.
They push through the doors and Lanie is there in a knockout dress, radiating impatience. Radiating everything that isn't and can't be. She's throwing off sparks, and it's catching.
Kate feels it in her chest and belly and the tips of her fingers. That fizzing newness and the dark, rich underneath of it all, because it's not new at all. It's inevitable. A slow burn that has nothing to do with any lunchroom buzz, and she's dumbstruck.
There's a brutal back and forth between them. Castle and Lanie, and she finds herself too off center from the elevator to head it off. Too up-ended by recent epiphanies and the reality that this goes far beyond what she's supposed to know and not. What she wants to know and not. She's too off center, and the back and forth between they two people in the world she's closest to is nothing like the worst of it.
. . . who's the lucky victim?
. . . you tell me what's going on between you and Gina . . .
And there it is. Everything she does and doesn't want to know.
She can't shake it after that. Her stomach's inclined to drop. The part of her that's supposed to be in charge drones a warning in the background, but she can't shake that fizzing, electric feeling.
She feels guilty for a dozen reasons. Because of Josh. Because whatever's going on with him and Gina, it shouldn't have anything to do with her. It can't have anything to do with her.
But she can't shake it. That sense that she's firing on all cylinders. That he is, and they are, and it's not just contagious. It's not just Lanie and Esposito. It's not even that some dark little part of her still aches every time she thinks about him arm-and-arm with Gina last spring.
There's something new and holding-her-breath about it all, and she doesn't know whether to thank God or curse fate that the solve comes in an out-of-the-way room. That it's not the two of them-inches apart and giving off sparks-right in the middle of the bullpen.
She can't shake it, but she can't own it, either. What it means when he looks at her like that. What it means that she wants him to look at her like that when she has no right to. No right at all.
But he does look at her like that. He is looking at her, and however out of the way the room is, all she can think about it is the lunchroom buzz. Is the sea of knowing smiles and the money changing hands.
What?
It's so much sharper than she means it to be, and he falters. He loses faith in the moment, and her stomach's inclined to drop, whether it has any right to or not.
Nothing, he says brusquely. Immediately. So what do we do now?
She says something, but it's no answer. Something, but it's no answer at all.
She doesn't really know what's different in the end. Why she, of all people, is the one to say they should take the wild shot with Dahl and the mirror and a convenient identical twin. She's not sure why she suddenly believes in all kinds of magic, but it comes down to the three of them. The lunchroom roar dies down. It's just her and Castle and Ryan and she hears herself ask.
So … where's Esposito?
Ha, take a wild guess.
Ryan laughs, and the two of them converge on Lanie's name. They're smiling, though. They're all smiling, and it's as if they all know they'll be the first in on the secret. That it's just a matter of time, not something she's not supposed to know.
She doesn't know what's different, but she's the optimist all of a sudden.
The bubble'll burst soon enough, he says.
Not if you're in it with the right person, the words rise up out of her like long-overdue truth, and she almost reaches for him. With Ryan standing right there, she almost pulls him right around to face her.
She doesn't have to, in the end. He turns, and there's a question in his eyes. Something that shines a light on that dark little corner of her, and it's not about Gina or Demming or the world's worst timing. It's not about then, even when his phone rings. It's about now and the moment after and the moment after that.
He lingers a minute as Ryan walks away with whatever she just signed. He lingers, and it's not hesitation. It's a nothing-up-my-sleeve look he gives her. One that's leaves no doubt in her mind what he means.
Excuse me, I need to take this.
It's still hard to overhear. Hard to kill off the old habit, and it does stop her in her tracks.
No. No, what I'm saying is . . . it's over.
Shes hot and cold together at the pain in his voice. The frustration and desolate undertone she thinks knows. The sense of fracture and the sting of raw places, newly exposed.
It might be what keeps her there. Empathy out of step. It might be what slows her movements to something as deliberate as his own just a few minutes ago. It might be what makes her linger to see the moment through, though it isn't easy.
He's the one to bring up Josh, and it isn't easy. It feels like a shot. A dig, and she's inclined to flare up. To let it be an excuse to go. To leave him to feel however it is he feels about his ex-wife, ex-girlfriend, still publisher.
But he came back. He could just as easily have slipped out, but he didn't, and she wonders if it's a challenge.
Doctor motorcycle boy?
She thinks maybe it is a challenge. That maybe it's his way of saying your move.
Maybe it's a continuation of every conversation they haven't been having, because Kate Beckett doesn't like to know things she's not supposed to know. Or maybe it's everything at once, because it's never going to be easy. Maybe people will always talk, and there's never going to be a moment with more magic than silk flowers up her sleeve.
Maybe. Maybe not, but she doesn't run.
She hustles ahead of him to pay. For her and for him, and for once he doesn't fight her. He nods a quiet thanks and steers them through the crowd winding up to the truck. He finds them a bench, wonder of wonders.
They eat in silence. Comparative silence, because even at his lowest, he can't help commenting on the fact that the little browned bits of cheese are the best and he needs a spoon for the chocolate sludge at the bottom of the cup.
He can't help it, but is heart's not in it. He's upset, and she worries that the performance is for her. That he thinks the usual patter is part of the terms for this. For company in a dimly lit hour, even if it is on a street bench in the cold.
"Do you want one? A spoon," he explains as though she wasn't listening. As though he expects that. He pops up from beside her. He's talking fast, his eyes darting to the empty cardboard dish on lap like the end is coming and he's not eager for it. "Or round two? On me. Only fair, and you didn't even taste the biscuits . . ."
"I'm good," she says quietly. She tips her head to the side as though she'll read him better in some other light. "You really still hungry?"
He shakes his head, eyes on the sidewalk. "Wasn't really . . ."
He looks up, startled and worried. She wonders why. If it's about tipping his hand or maybe he thinks she'll be mad or think he's a sad case for just wanting the company. She wonders, but it isn't important. It really just isn't. She pats the bench next to her, and he sits.
Silence falls again, easier now. More complete, and it's tempting to leave it like this. To spend time watching New York crawl by until the cold gets the better of them. But it's her move, even if that's . . . problematic. Even if she doesn't know what it means. It's her move.
"If you want . . ." Her voice is loud, sudden enough that she feels him startle. She feels him turn toward her, and she can't look. It's strange and foreign and awkward enough that she can't look. "I know you said you were glad no one asked . . ."
"Not no one," he says, and there's a sharp, angry edge to the words. One he has to work to soften. "You." He hesitates. He's not having any easier a time with this than she is. "I know it seems like privacy isn't a big thing with me. But it's not easy to have your . . . mistakes looking up at you from every flat surface." His mouth twists in a smile that's just this side of humorless as he adds, "And being the talk of the water cooler? Not as cool as it sounds."
"No, it's not."
There's enough feeling in the reply that it draws him around. He gives her a curious look and it almost comes tumbling out. The truth about Demming and the whole damned summer and . . . something like everything. It almost comes tumbling out, but it doesn't feel like the time. She picks up the thread of what she meant to say, instead. The offer she meant in earnest, however awkward it is to make.
"No water cooler here, though." She nudges his shoulder with hers. It's a little too buddy buddy, but she pushes through it. Through the embarrassment and certainty that she's just not good at this. "So . . . you doing ok, Castle?"
He's surprised. Bordering on shocked, and it's not doing wonders for the embarrassment, but he answers. A question with a question, but an answer still. "You really want to know?"
"I do." She nods. Sets aside her empty tray and tucks her scarf tighter around her throat. She folds her hands in her lap. A not-going-anywhere gesture that draws a smile up out of him. "Whatever you want to tell me, I want to know."
A/N: Not sure this conceit works this late in the game. Thanks for reading, though.
Rating: T
Summary: "Everything's driving her a little mad lately. The precinct is buzzes like a junior high lunch room, day and night, and for her, it's not a welcome change."
A/N: Venturing into S3 here, which might be a mistake
Everything's driving her a little mad lately. The precinct is buzzes like a junior high lunch room, day and night, and for her, it's not a welcome change.
She's happy for Lanie. Happy for Esposito, though she doesn't like the part of her that worries. The part of her that rises up with threats for him, warnings and grim prophecies for her, like it's any of her business. Like either of them needs her input or anyone else's, for that matter.
She's happy for them, but she wishes they'd just come clean already. Ryan's having a little too much fun torturing his partner. Everyone's having a little too much fun. Not quite catching the two of them in flagrante. Dropping not-quite-innocent comments and letting the two of them writhe a while.
Everyone's having tremendous fun, except her. The whole thing makes her careful. Exaggeratedly, awkwardly careful, because she doesn't like knowing things she's not supposed to know. She doesn't like feeling like a snoop when she pointedly, deliberately isn't one.
It's strange, given her profession. That's what people say when it comes up. If it comes up, because she's not exactly a sharer, either. But she doesn't think of it as strange.
Important. That's how she sees it. Do unto others, and lord knows she's fiercely private, but it's more than that. Important in more ways than just that.
She's not a snoop because of her profession. Because it's too easy to lose Kate to Beckett already. Because it's hard to switch her off at night and on her days off. It's hard enough to keep conversation from turning into interrogation. So she doesn't snoop, because she's more than the job. And no one needs reminding of that as much as she does.
She's not expecting things to get worse. She goes on worrying and not liking herself for it. She goes on wishing they'd come clean. Hoping that everyone, for the love of God, will tire of it or something-anything-else will capture the collective imagination.
But then something does, and it's worse. It's complicated, and she wasn't expecting it at all.
She's so definitely not expecting it that she barges right in outside the magic shop. Castle's leaning in, and Esposito's going pale. She thinks it's more of the same. That it's Castle winding the poor guy up, just like everyone has been, and it's stupid early and she's just had enough.
Everyone knows what? she asks with what she hopes is just enough oomph in Castle's direction that he'll take the hint.
Nothing.
It's absolute unison, but they might as well be speaking Swedish and Swahili for all the word has in common. Esposito makes an absolutely amateur feint with his two-way and slips off, but she hardly notices.
Castle practically radiates unhappiness. Tension, and it's the last thing in the world she was expecting. It's jarring enough that she's asking before she can think better of it. Before she recalls that it's really none of her business.
You ok, Castle?
The pause isn't much. Just a beat, but she fully expects him to rush right in. To call up his ready smile and change the subject, but he's silent. Unhappy, she thinks again, and she can't help herself. She goes on.
You seem upset.
The last word snags his attention. Or maybe it's that she's asking at all. Maybe he thinks she's annoyed that he's distracted. Either way, it calls up the ready smile. It sets his shoulders further back and lifts his chin.
No. No, I'm fine. Why?
Okay, she says, but it isn't. He isn't. And she doesn't like knowing things she's not supposed to know.
It's an unfamiliar feeling. The sudden urge to kill Kevin Ryan. To wrap him up in his tweedy little vest and suffocate him, just to shut him up. It's a new thing, and she wonders if he knows he's taking his life in his hands, waving that damned paper around. That damned page six that makes the scene in front of the magic shop all too clear. Clearer than it's meant to be.
Castle hasn't said a word. He has to know. He has to have seen Ryan and the other six, eight, ten people passing it from hand to hand. He has to have seen the off-putting photoshop job. His own scowl and Gina's crudely snipped and set on the faded gray of the page.
She thinks he must know, then thinks he doesn't know at all. Back-and-forth, she goes, and why? It's none of her business. Whatever's behind his unhappy silence. Whatever has him so turned inward that might well not know that it's in the paper. That he's the source of the current lunchroom buzz.
It's none of her business, but it tests her resolve like nothing before. Not about snooping, exactly, but asking. Pressing the issue like he would, because it bothers him when she's upset. It bothers her when he is, and that really shouldn't be a revelation. It isn't. That's another not exactly, but this is different.
Because it's not just a stupid fight about Taylor Swift tickets, and it's not just a couple of warmed over inches of gossip column. He's upset, and she doesn't like it. She tries teasing him out of it. Lifting his phone and holding it up with a flourish. She feels a flush of pride when he laughs. A flush of something else entirely when when he flirts.
You had your hand in my pocket and I didn't even feel it? Do it again.
But the phone rings. It's Gina, and he shuts down instantly. His face is stone as he takes the phone from her. He jams his thumb on the button, leaving a thick, heavy silence between them.
What? he says, and she doesn't know-genuinely doesn't know-if he wants her to answer. If he's waiting for it, and he's so unhappy, she almost doesn't care if he wants to talk about it or not. If she's supposed to know or not supposed to know. She almost doesn't care, because he's upset and she doesn't like it.
Except she does like it, and that's what stops her mouth in the end. He's dodging his ex-wife-slash-girlfriend-slash-publisher's calls. And there's a dark, fucked up little part of her that's thrilled.
She's tugged this way and that, caught in the middle with Ryan pressing Esposito about his buddy, Ray the magic show lover. A smile zings all around the bullpen at that one. Even Castle catches a sliver of it. But she's the wall it slams into. She's caught in the middle and had enough and they're off after Tobias Strange.
It's a relief. The two of them away from the lunchroom drama machine, at least, and he seems glad enough that she doesn't want to talk about the business with the phone or the paper or anything. He's not fishing or looking at he sidelong, trying to figure what she knows or doesn't know, and it's an absolute relief for an hour or two.
He's off on the retribution angle. He's absolutely enthralled by the possibility of espionage in the illusion business, and he's a new man, spinning off into uncharted territory. He chatters on and on as they crawl through traffic. She rolls her eyes and pokes holes in every last scenario, and it might not be wishful thinking that he's as grateful to be out of the thick of it as she is. She watches him out of the corner of her eye and it seems true. They spill out of the car and he's still going. He's on to a counter-spy in a sequined bathing suit.
"I'm telling you. Getting Chuck booted was a dry run. Ooh! What if he needed the C4 to plant it?" He hurries after her as she shakes her head. "What if he suspected them both - "
"Both?" She turns as she stabs the button for the elevator down to the morgue. "Two magician spies now?"
"Strange's rival and his assistant." He brushes off her skepticism entirely. "She was the more dangerous one. They always are, you know."
He gives her an up-and-down look that's silly at first, but turns inside out somewhere along the way. It sends a shiver chasing over her skin. It shouldn't, but it does, and he knows it does. He's surprised, but he knows.
He lets it hover in the air for a beat. It's too close in the elevator, and she'd almost rather see him upset. Almost.
The elevator dings and the doors slide open. It calls them both back to who they're supposed to be. Out of a different corner of the lunchroom entirely. His breath hitches just enough that she notices. Just enough that he might mean her to, and he goes on.
"Zalman had orders to neutralize her, but the magician was a minor player. So shine a light on him and boom! He's effectively out of the game."He thinks about it. Grins to himself. "Literally boom!"
She overplays the scowl. Exaggerates to keep them here in this familiar back-and-forth. To keep them well clear of anything that isn't and can't be, but it's no good. It's pointless.
They push through the doors and Lanie is there in a knockout dress, radiating impatience. Radiating everything that isn't and can't be. She's throwing off sparks, and it's catching.
Kate feels it in her chest and belly and the tips of her fingers. That fizzing newness and the dark, rich underneath of it all, because it's not new at all. It's inevitable. A slow burn that has nothing to do with any lunchroom buzz, and she's dumbstruck.
There's a brutal back and forth between them. Castle and Lanie, and she finds herself too off center from the elevator to head it off. Too up-ended by recent epiphanies and the reality that this goes far beyond what she's supposed to know and not. What she wants to know and not. She's too off center, and the back and forth between they two people in the world she's closest to is nothing like the worst of it.
. . . who's the lucky victim?
. . . you tell me what's going on between you and Gina . . .
And there it is. Everything she does and doesn't want to know.
She can't shake it after that. Her stomach's inclined to drop. The part of her that's supposed to be in charge drones a warning in the background, but she can't shake that fizzing, electric feeling.
She feels guilty for a dozen reasons. Because of Josh. Because whatever's going on with him and Gina, it shouldn't have anything to do with her. It can't have anything to do with her.
But she can't shake it. That sense that she's firing on all cylinders. That he is, and they are, and it's not just contagious. It's not just Lanie and Esposito. It's not even that some dark little part of her still aches every time she thinks about him arm-and-arm with Gina last spring.
There's something new and holding-her-breath about it all, and she doesn't know whether to thank God or curse fate that the solve comes in an out-of-the-way room. That it's not the two of them-inches apart and giving off sparks-right in the middle of the bullpen.
She can't shake it, but she can't own it, either. What it means when he looks at her like that. What it means that she wants him to look at her like that when she has no right to. No right at all.
But he does look at her like that. He is looking at her, and however out of the way the room is, all she can think about it is the lunchroom buzz. Is the sea of knowing smiles and the money changing hands.
What?
It's so much sharper than she means it to be, and he falters. He loses faith in the moment, and her stomach's inclined to drop, whether it has any right to or not.
Nothing, he says brusquely. Immediately. So what do we do now?
She says something, but it's no answer. Something, but it's no answer at all.
She doesn't really know what's different in the end. Why she, of all people, is the one to say they should take the wild shot with Dahl and the mirror and a convenient identical twin. She's not sure why she suddenly believes in all kinds of magic, but it comes down to the three of them. The lunchroom roar dies down. It's just her and Castle and Ryan and she hears herself ask.
So … where's Esposito?
Ha, take a wild guess.
Ryan laughs, and the two of them converge on Lanie's name. They're smiling, though. They're all smiling, and it's as if they all know they'll be the first in on the secret. That it's just a matter of time, not something she's not supposed to know.
She doesn't know what's different, but she's the optimist all of a sudden.
The bubble'll burst soon enough, he says.
Not if you're in it with the right person, the words rise up out of her like long-overdue truth, and she almost reaches for him. With Ryan standing right there, she almost pulls him right around to face her.
She doesn't have to, in the end. He turns, and there's a question in his eyes. Something that shines a light on that dark little corner of her, and it's not about Gina or Demming or the world's worst timing. It's not about then, even when his phone rings. It's about now and the moment after and the moment after that.
He lingers a minute as Ryan walks away with whatever she just signed. He lingers, and it's not hesitation. It's a nothing-up-my-sleeve look he gives her. One that's leaves no doubt in her mind what he means.
Excuse me, I need to take this.
It's still hard to overhear. Hard to kill off the old habit, and it does stop her in her tracks.
No. No, what I'm saying is . . . it's over.
Shes hot and cold together at the pain in his voice. The frustration and desolate undertone she thinks knows. The sense of fracture and the sting of raw places, newly exposed.
It might be what keeps her there. Empathy out of step. It might be what slows her movements to something as deliberate as his own just a few minutes ago. It might be what makes her linger to see the moment through, though it isn't easy.
He's the one to bring up Josh, and it isn't easy. It feels like a shot. A dig, and she's inclined to flare up. To let it be an excuse to go. To leave him to feel however it is he feels about his ex-wife, ex-girlfriend, still publisher.
But he came back. He could just as easily have slipped out, but he didn't, and she wonders if it's a challenge.
Doctor motorcycle boy?
She thinks maybe it is a challenge. That maybe it's his way of saying your move.
Maybe it's a continuation of every conversation they haven't been having, because Kate Beckett doesn't like to know things she's not supposed to know. Or maybe it's everything at once, because it's never going to be easy. Maybe people will always talk, and there's never going to be a moment with more magic than silk flowers up her sleeve.
Maybe. Maybe not, but she doesn't run.
She hustles ahead of him to pay. For her and for him, and for once he doesn't fight her. He nods a quiet thanks and steers them through the crowd winding up to the truck. He finds them a bench, wonder of wonders.
They eat in silence. Comparative silence, because even at his lowest, he can't help commenting on the fact that the little browned bits of cheese are the best and he needs a spoon for the chocolate sludge at the bottom of the cup.
He can't help it, but is heart's not in it. He's upset, and she worries that the performance is for her. That he thinks the usual patter is part of the terms for this. For company in a dimly lit hour, even if it is on a street bench in the cold.
"Do you want one? A spoon," he explains as though she wasn't listening. As though he expects that. He pops up from beside her. He's talking fast, his eyes darting to the empty cardboard dish on lap like the end is coming and he's not eager for it. "Or round two? On me. Only fair, and you didn't even taste the biscuits . . ."
"I'm good," she says quietly. She tips her head to the side as though she'll read him better in some other light. "You really still hungry?"
He shakes his head, eyes on the sidewalk. "Wasn't really . . ."
He looks up, startled and worried. She wonders why. If it's about tipping his hand or maybe he thinks she'll be mad or think he's a sad case for just wanting the company. She wonders, but it isn't important. It really just isn't. She pats the bench next to her, and he sits.
Silence falls again, easier now. More complete, and it's tempting to leave it like this. To spend time watching New York crawl by until the cold gets the better of them. But it's her move, even if that's . . . problematic. Even if she doesn't know what it means. It's her move.
"If you want . . ." Her voice is loud, sudden enough that she feels him startle. She feels him turn toward her, and she can't look. It's strange and foreign and awkward enough that she can't look. "I know you said you were glad no one asked . . ."
"Not no one," he says, and there's a sharp, angry edge to the words. One he has to work to soften. "You." He hesitates. He's not having any easier a time with this than she is. "I know it seems like privacy isn't a big thing with me. But it's not easy to have your . . . mistakes looking up at you from every flat surface." His mouth twists in a smile that's just this side of humorless as he adds, "And being the talk of the water cooler? Not as cool as it sounds."
"No, it's not."
There's enough feeling in the reply that it draws him around. He gives her a curious look and it almost comes tumbling out. The truth about Demming and the whole damned summer and . . . something like everything. It almost comes tumbling out, but it doesn't feel like the time. She picks up the thread of what she meant to say, instead. The offer she meant in earnest, however awkward it is to make.
"No water cooler here, though." She nudges his shoulder with hers. It's a little too buddy buddy, but she pushes through it. Through the embarrassment and certainty that she's just not good at this. "So . . . you doing ok, Castle?"
He's surprised. Bordering on shocked, and it's not doing wonders for the embarrassment, but he answers. A question with a question, but an answer still. "You really want to know?"
"I do." She nods. Sets aside her empty tray and tucks her scarf tighter around her throat. She folds her hands in her lap. A not-going-anywhere gesture that draws a smile up out of him. "Whatever you want to tell me, I want to know."
A/N: Not sure this conceit works this late in the game. Thanks for reading, though.